The Houseparty

by Anne Stuart

  "Is it Michael?" Her voice cracked in desperation.

  "I'm not going to tell you," the contessa replied simply. "What you should do, my girl, is return to Winfields and glue yourself to Lady Elfreda. Sit there and tat, or read sermons, or play silver loo, or stare out the window. And ignore everything that seems the slightest bit untoward. You've been far too rambunctious so far, and I can't answer for the consequences if you don't do as I tell you."

  "I have no intentions of doing anything unless you are honest with me."

  "Wretched girl!" The contessa shook her head ruefully. "It's no wonder Michael's half out of his mind with frustration. I wonder your brothers haven't strangled you long ago."

  "They're too afraid of me," she shot back. She eyed the contessa speculatively, hesitating for a moment. "I wonder if I could ask you a question?"

  "Not if you're going to ask me who the spy is."

  "Nothing to do with that. Or not much. I wondered . . . in light of your varied experiences . . . you must have seen a great many gentlemen without their shirts on."

  The contessa smiled with reminiscent fondness. "That I have, dearie."

  "And I don't doubt you've seen Captain Fraser without his shirt," she continued, stifling the pang that assailed her at such a thought.

  The contessa nodded. "Not that it's ever done me much good. He's the one that got away, I'm afraid. A bit too fastidious to be interested in the likes of me. Ah, well, it's his loss."

  "Is . . . that is, do most gentlemen look like Captain Fraser without their shirts? In the general run of things?"

  "In the general run of things Michael Fraser has one of the most delightful bodies I've ever seen on a man. And I've seen quite a few," she added with a smile that could almost, on a gentleman, be called a leer. "Fancy him, do you?"

  "Heavens, no!"

  "Heavens, no!" she mimicked. "I've got eyes in my head, missy. Do as I tell you, and everything might just possibly come round right. Keep interfering, and heaven knows what will happen!" She cast a sharp look at her companion and let out a small sigh of exasperation. "You are the most frustrating girl!"

  Luncheon was a prolonged, exceedingly boring affair, the entire proceedings enlivened only by the fulminating glances Brenna kept casting at the cow-eyed and repentant Sumner. Apparently the contessa was right, and he had seen the error of his ways. Elizabeth could only hope it wasn't too late. Brenna O'Shea was possessed of a good

  Irish temper, and the recent blow on her head hadn't helped it any.

  On Elizabeth's left sat a preoccupied Rupert St. Ives, . who spent fully as much time glaring across at Michael Fraser as Brenna did staring at Sumner. On Elizabeth's other side sat the taciturn General Wingert, who had obviously decided she was a flighty female who didn't know her place. To her wittiest overtures the dour Sir Maurice returned only monosyllabic answers, reserving the majority of his attention for his subdued adjutant.

  Michael studiously avoided her questioning eyes during the meal, a grim expression around his mouth, a hint of anger in the dark blue eyes. The contessa spent her time flirting with a vastly pleased Adolphus, and Lady Elfreda, left with only Sir Henry to fall back on, decided to flirt archly with him. Poor Sir Henry appeared acutely uncomfortable, and every now and then he cast beseeching eyes toward Rupert. But the latter was too busy fuming at Fraser to notice.

  Even the French chef's best efforts failed to rouse Elizabeth's appetite. When the moment came for the ladies to withdraw, she hastily excused herself, pleading a dire headache.

  She was halfway up the stairs to her bedroom when Sumner's rich, golden voice reached her. "Elizabeth!" he thundered in his best Revelation's voice. "Come back down here immediately!"

  She halted, one slender foot on the step above her, and contemplated whether she dared pretend not to have heard him. But she had hesitated too long, and she might as well face Sumner's righteous indignation now rather than later. If he was unable to vent his spleen, his rage would only build.

  "I have a headache," she offered plaintively.

  "Caused by guilt, I have no doubt," he replied in a repressive voice, squaring his manly shoulders. "Will you come down or shall I have to come up and drag you down?"

  Sumner had always been somewhat of a bully despite his gentle appearance, and Jeremy was no longer around to protect her. "Very well," she sighed with a martyred air as she descended the staircase. Like a recalcitrant child she found herself led into the deserted ballroom, the door shut firmly behind her fuming brother. The room was a great deal larger and less welcoming in the cold bright light of day, and Elizabeth availed herself of one of the delicate gilt chairs with a weary sigh.

  "I would prefer you to stand," Sumner scowled.

  "Oh, cut line, brother," she snapped back, not in the proper mood for this. "Let's have it and be done with it. I have far too much on my mind to have to deal with your jawing at me."

  Sumner's handsome face took on a deeply sorrowful expression. "Elizabeth, this willful attitude of yours grieves me deeply. I couldn't believe my ears when Rupert told me what you were doing this morning! Are you lost to every vestige of propriety? To be found alone in a man's bedroom, with the gentleman in question undressed—"

  "He was wearing a towel!" Elizabeth interrupted.

  "Oh, marvelous," Sumner said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "And that makes everything right and proper, I suppose. If it were anyone else, I would insist that the man marry you and save your reputation, but in the case of a confirmed villain such as Michael Fraser we may only hope that no word of this gets out. I am certain I can trust the Wingerts and the contessa to keep silent, and Rupert would lay down his life to protect your reputation. But Fraser is another matter. I am afraid he might try to blackmail us, and there will be nothing we can do but pay him. That a sister of mine, a vicar's sister, should embroil herself in such a hideous tangle horrifies and grieves me. What Jeremy would say if he were to hear of this contretemps I shudder to think."

  "Are you quite finished?" Elizabeth inquired in deceptively affable tones.

  "Hardly. Do you realize what a dangerous fellow Fraser is? Rupert has been telling me the most horrifying tales. Sir Henry Hatchett came here accompanied by half a dozen soldiers. Their purpose I don't dare to guess, but you may be sure it involves Michael Fraser! Cousin Adolphus and I have discussed the matter, of course, and had hoped we had guaranteed the safety of our womenfolk, but I have found our confidence to be sadly misplaced. I should have known you would involve yourself needlessly. It has long been a sorrow to me that you refuse to be guided by my wise counsel. Ignore my advice, and go running off without—"

  "Sumner!" Elizabeth's voice could thunder on occasion, and it did just then. Her brother subsided into a surprised mumble. She rose to her full height and stared up at him defiantly, her golden eyes furious. "What I do, and with whom I do it, is none of your business."

  "Don't be absurd!" he protested ineffectually, still rather awed by her volume. "I'm your brother, the head of the household in Jeremy's absence; of course you should defer to me."

  "You, my dear Sumner, are a cod's head," she said in scathing tones. "You've been so busy running after a pretty lightskirt who's scarcely your sort of female that you've thrown away a fine girl who loves you desperately. And for what? Brenna's sick of you, and well she ought to be. The contessa has far bigger fish than you in mind, and you dare to criticize my behavior. I wonder you have the nerve."

  Sumner opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again as he gathered force. "Are you trying to defend your behavior with Captain Fraser by attacking mine?" he demanded in awesome tones.

  "I am neither defending it nor apologizing for it. It's none of your business."

  Sumner's strong, handsome jaw snapped shut, and the baby blue eyes blazed furiously. "Are you intending to carry on with your disgusting behavior with that. . . that traitor, as Rupert informs me?"

  "Rupert has been a bit too busy informing people," she shot back. "I'll do what
I damn well please."

  "And did you learn cursing from your handsome spy?" he questioned hotly.

  She allowed a saucy smile to wreathe her face. "Among other things."

  The slight hold Sumner had on his temper vanished. "How dare you!" he thundered, his voice carrying, probably into every room, Elizabeth thought distractedly. "If you insist on continuing this . . . this disgusting behavior, then you will leave me no choice in the matter." He started toward the door, then stopped and turned to deliver the crushing blow. "Elizabeth," he said in ringing tones, "you are no sister of mine."

  "Almost, brother dear, you persuade me," she replied silkily, and then winced as the door slammed shut behind him.

  She sat back down on the gilt chair for a moment, surprised to discover that she was trembling. Hot as her temper could be, she still disliked quarreling with her overbearing brother above all things. Shouting voices made her physically ill, and she leaned back against the chair and shut her eyes for a moment.

  The sound of a distinctly feminine gasp came to Elizabeth's tired ears. "Brenna!" Sumner's usually rounded tones were somewhat ragged.

  "Sumner Traherne," Brenna's furious voice carried in to Elizabeth's curious attention, "if you think you can treat me like this, you have another thing—" Her voice was cut off abruptly, and Elizabeth rose from her chair and moved closer to the door, unashamedly pressing one ear against the carved paneling. There was now no sound in the hallway except a curious rustling noise.

  And then Sumner's voice, little more than a whisper, drifted in. "Forgive me, Brenna," he said simply. More rustlings followed, a deep sigh, and then Brenna's voice, strangely husky, said, "Oh, Sumner."

  Elizabeth deemed it time to retire. Perhaps her brother had seen the error of his ways. Perhaps he wasn't such a gudgeon after all. But she'd place no reliance on it. With a sigh she moved back across the deserted ballroom to the French doors.

  A furtive movement out in the depths of the garden seized her wandering attention. Without hesitation she silently turned the latch on the French doors and slipped out onto the terrace. The sunny morning had given way to a cloudy afternoon, and the shadowy garden seemed a gloomy place for a walk. Perhaps she had imagined that movement off in the distance. Then she saw them.

  Three men were deep in conversation. Even from that distance Elizabeth could detect the general's squat, almost malevolent form, and there was no mistaking Sir Henry's gray mane of hair. But the tall, straight form of a younger man beside them as they moved slowly in her direction, lost in conversation, was not immediately recognizable. He wasn't tall enough or graceful enough to be Fraser. And it wasn't the hauntingly familiar-unfamiliar shape of the mysterious Fredericks from Starfield Cove. It could only be Rupert, though what they could be talking about excited Elizabeth's attention to no small degree. Very discreetly she slipped off the balcony and crept forward, hoping against hope that she might overhear something of interest.

  It didn't take her long to come upon Michael Fraser, who obviously had the same intentions. His tall, straight back was to her as he hid behind an accommodating thicket, so intent on the conversation that he failed to hear her silent approach. Elizabeth stared at him meditatively for one long moment, the trace of a smile on her full lips. The captain was not quite as professional as he hoped to be. Unable to resist the temptation, she crept up behind him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  With a muffled curse he spun around, and there was a flash of steel from the wicked-looking knife in his hand. They stared at each other for a long moment.

  "Were you planning to kill me with that?" she inquired politely. "Or had you reserved that honor for one of those three gentlemen?"

  With a grim expression he tucked the knife back into his boot. "I wasn't planning to kill anyone, Lizzie," he replied in a whisper. "Though you may very well drive me to it. Go away."

  "I will not. I want to hear what they have to say fully as much as you do," she whispered back pertly. "And if you don't let me, I will go and interrupt them, and then you will find out exactly nothing."

  "I think I will murder you," he said in a savage undertone, yanking her into the bushes with him. "Keep your mouth quiet or it will be here and now."

  She did as she was told, staring at the three approaching figures with silent determination. The only problem with her vantage point was its proximity to Michael Fraser. However much she might want to strain her ears for any stray words, watch closely for any revealing expression, all she could concentrate on was the tall, lean body directly behind her, so close she could feel the heat emanating from him, feel his breath stir her hair, hear the quiet sound of his breathing. More than anything she longed to lean back against that strong, comforting body and be enfolded in those arms.

  Pay attention, she ordered herself savagely. Listen to what they're saying. Remember Jeremy and what you owe him. Don't forget the danger, Brenna's knock on the head, the poor drowned Frenchman, the mysteriously familiar figure down at Starfield Cove. Most of all, don't forget Jeremy.

  A small gasp escaped her as she turned accusingly to Fraser, her brown eyes wide with shock. "It was Jeremy!" she cried in a mercifully quiet shriek. "How could I be so stupid? It was Jeremy down at the cove. It was Jeremy."

  With more force than was strictly necessary Michael clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her down into the bushes, "For God's sake, be quiet," he breathed in her ear. "If you want to save your brother's life, keep that damned mouth shut."

  The voices were ominously close. "What was that?"

  The high-pitched, authoritarian tones could only belong to General Wingert. "I heard voices, Hatchett."

  "Did you, Maurice?" that gentleman returned affably. "I can't say I did, but then, my hearing is not what it was. Did you hear anything, St. Ives?"

  "Damn it, I'm not asking for opinions!" the general snapped. "Search those bushes, St. Ives. If someone is spying on us, I want to know who."

  "Yes, sir." Rupert's voice was even closer. Out of panicked eyes Elizabeth could see his sturdy legs as he thrashed about the bushes directly in front of them. Fraser's hand was still clapped across her mouth, his grip numbing her arm as he held her in a crouch under the shield of the boxwood.

  "Check behind you, man!" the general snapped, and Elizabeth's heart sank.

  "Very good, sir." Rupert came directly toward them, parted the bushes and looked down into Elizabeth's frightened eyes and the hand across her mouth. There was absolutely no change in his expression.

  He let the bushes go back over them. "No one here, sir," he said blandly. "It must have been the ravens."

  "I grew up here, Captain. We've never had ravens before," Sir Maurice said testily, and their voices trailed away. "So you'll be leaving me to keep an eye on the place this evening, eh, Hatchett? While you go off on some wild goose chase."

  "We think we've found something interesting, Maurice," Sir Henry replied genially. "Down at the cove, where LeBoeuf was found. I doubt anything will happen during the short time we're gone. If you'd like, we can leave a couple of my men behind."

  "No need for that," the general replied, suddenly affable. "I think an old war-horse like me can be trusted to see to the safety of a bunch of females. The day I can't . . ."

  The voices faded beyond hearing, and Fraser slowly loosened his strangling grip, stretching to his full height and pulling Elizabeth up beside him. There was no sign of the three gentlemen.

  "What is going on here?" Elizabeth exploded once she had caught her breath. "What in the world are you up to? Is Rupert a traitor too? And my brother?" Her voice was high-pitched with anxiety.

  "There is no need to get hysterical," Fraser said in a repressive voice. "And you might as well resign yourself to the fact that I am going to tell you exactly nothing. I would strongly suggest you go inside and spend your time pursuing some improving activity. And keep out of the way. If you're a good girl, I'll explain it all to you tomorrow." He gave her a little push.

  "If I'm a
good girl?" she echoed, infuriated. "I'm going to stop you, Michael Fraser. I'm not going to let you get away with whatever it is you're doing, and I'm not going to let you drag Rupert and Jeremy down with you."

  "And what," he inquired casually, "has convinced you that I am such a villain? Has it ever occurred to you for one moment that I might be on the side of the angels?"

  "No," she snapped. "I know you far too well."

  "After two days? I take leave to doubt that. However, my sweet termagant, you'll have a chance to remedy that before long. In the meantime, go back inside. I have some thinking to do."

  "With pleasure," she said icily, flouncing away. Keep out of the way, she fumed. Oh, you'd like that very well, my fine Captain Fraser. But I am going to do no such thing. I am going to find General Wingert and tell him exactly what is going on. And then we'll see who's so clever.

  But then I might be betraying Jeremy, she thought belatedly as she let herself into the deserted ballroom from the terrace. I don't dare do that, and well Michael knows that. He knows that I daren't trust anyone, that I have no choice but to do just as he tells me. The only person I can turn to is myself. The thought was scarcely reassuring.

  Stepping out into the hallway, she started for the stairs. The general and his compatriots would be deep in their schemes for some time yet. Most of the ladies, with the possible exception of the Contessa of Billingsgate, would be much too involved in their own business to come in search of her. But the contessa had drunk a formidable amount of wine with lunch, and there was little doubt she was at that moment reposing sleepily by the fire, her heavy lids drooping over her usually sharp eyes. Michael would be too caught up in his chicanery to keep an eye on her while she snooped.

  Please let it be all right, she prayed silently as she crept along the deserted corridor. Jeremy couldn't be a traitor! Sweet heaven, don't let Rupert be betraying his country and leading his oldest and dearest friend astray. Let him be on Jeremy's side. And oh, dear God, let Michael Fraser be on his side, too. Or I shall kill him with my own bare hands, she promised grimly.